


Runaway

by llyn



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Anal Sex, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Sex Work, Sex in a Car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 07:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14950566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llyn/pseuds/llyn
Summary: He drives fast. He streaks across the night like a shooting star. He’s never lost a race, never lost a fight, but it feels like he’s lost something tonight.





	Runaway

**Author's Note:**

  * For [betelxeuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betelxeuse/gifts).



> Happy Birthday to my coffin wife! I adore you, I cherish you, I spend every day in awe of your brilliance, beauty, and wit. I tried my best to write something worthy of you but oh gosh writing for a new pairing is scary! I hope you like it, and I wish you a beautiful birthday <3
> 
> This fic was inspired by the Rolling Stones’ “2000 Light Years from Home” off of their album Their Satanic Majesties Request. It's the most sheith song I've ever heard & I highly recommend it.

After the ceremony, while his classmates linger in the atrium in their caps and gowns, smiling and posing for pictures, Keith stands for a moment, alone, searching the crowd. There's no sign of his mom. He’d held out hope she’d come. He hops in his cherry red ‘68 mustang and drives.

He drives fast. He streaks across the night like a shooting star. He’s never lost a race, never lost a fight, but it feels like he’s lost something tonight. His childhood. The last chance he ever had to feel like he fit in here. Or maybe it’s something more. And what comes next? When he tries to imagine his future all he sees is his own hand reaching out for something that won’t be caught, that stays hidden from his sight, just beyond the horizon. He only knows one thing for certain. He’ll leave town tomorrow.

He takes the winding road up to Lookout Park, tires squealing on the turns. For a dizzying second at the road’s last crest the wheels leave the ground. Weightless, the whole city is laid out before him in glittering lights. He flies. Then the tires touch down, jolting him in his seat and he skids to a stop in the empty parking lot. He doesn’t know what drew him up here. The height. The lonesomeness. The view. Whatever. He didn’t plan on coming. So it figures that Shiro is here waiting for him.

Shiro’s black Hellcat crouches at the edge of the park, glossy in the moonlight. As the smoke from his tires blows past him, all at once Keith remembers his graduation gown. The cap that just wouldn’t fit over his hair. He balls it all up and flings it away. Tries to restore his hair’s volume with some luck. He’s self conscious in his oxford shirt, his borrowed tie, and dress pants. He favors ripped jeans and tight shirts. He likes throwing what he’s got in people’s faces. But Shiro’s seen him from every angle and never taken him up. So what does he care that Keith’s trussed up like a fucking turkey. He wills himself to calm down. Then he steps out into the night.

Shiro says, “Keith.” But he lets Keith come to him. He’s leaning back against the bumper in a suit. It takes a second for Keith to get passed that fact, and put the pieces together.

Keith hates the way his voice sounds when he asks, “You were there?” Shiro brings out the lonely, little orphan in him, it’s stupid. He has a mom and dad, or had them. Still, he wants _more_.

“Of course,” Shiro hugs him. “Congratulations,” he says, near his ear so that Keith’s hair stands on end. They don’t let go right away. Keith tucks his head against Shiro’s chest and breathes.

When Keith steps back, it’s all he can do to dig out his pack of cigarettes. He lights up. His hands shake, but just a little. Shiro frowns at him, but just a little. He doesn’t like the smoking. He doesn’t like the whoring around, much either. But that’s besides the point. “I tried to catch you after the ceremony but you took off. I knew I’d find you here.”

“I’m that predictable?” There’s something thick in the air between them. It’s happened before. Keith’s not gonna let himself get excited. Shiro always steps away from the edge.

Shiro looks at him sideways, “I know what you like.” He looks down at his shoes, and Keith watches him, still telling his heart to put on the brakes.

Tonight Shiro seems tense as a panther, wide shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets like he expects bad news. The scar over his nose is red, like he’s been rubbing it. He does that, when he’s nervous. “The truth is--” The words come out scratchy, not spoken but dragged out against their will. Shiro looks up at the stars, squinting, then drops his head and says, “Fuck it.” Before Keith can laugh his surprise, Shiro’s looking right at him, “Get in the backseat.”

Keith coughs out smoke, “What?”

“Now,” Shiro says.

Keith says, “Okay.” It's surreal. It's what he's always wanted. He throws his cigarette on the ground, climbing into the backseat from the driver’s side. He starts on his tie, then stops, wondering if Shiro will do that--or _what_ Shiro wants to do. He can do _anything_ , Keith thinks, then blushes, because Shiro already knows that. Then Shiro’s there, crowding in close.

“Sorry I made you wait,” he says, and his voice is low and as soft as his first touch, tilting Keith’s chin up.

“I didn’t know that’s what you were doing,” Keith tells him, thinking of the countless times Shiro had stepped back, broken a stare, disappeared for a few days, always keeping his distance. “I thought you didn’t like me like that.”

“That’s not possible, Keith,” Shiro says.

“How long have you been, um, waiting?” he has to know this most of all.

Shiro looks to the side, guilty. Ah. A long, long time. He brushes his thumb over Keith’s bottom lip, then leans in to kiss. Suddenly, that’s allowed. It's the kind of kiss Keith always wanted. His toes curl. His fingers curl, too, around Shiro's biceps. Shiro pulls back to smile at him, sweet and sad. “You should see yourself--” he says. He kisses Keith again before he says any more.

He presses him down on his back, body covering Keith’s entirely. Keith has dreamt of this--more than he wants to admit--for years. Yet it’s not what he expects, because Shiro, who always makes him feel stronger, better, bigger than he is, now makes him feel small enough to fit in his palm. One hand curls under Keith’s back, the prosthetic cradling his head, and his lips are soft but insistent, sweet but possessive. His hips pin Keith’s down and roll, so that Keith moans into Shiro’s mouth, helpless.

Shiro must know. He speaks the language of Keith’s moans and answers, “I’ve got you, Keith. I’m here.”

Keith’s watched him go to war, go missing, come home without his arm, fighting the same addiction his mother fights, that runs through Keith’s veins, born premature--a dope fiend at birth. It’s why he’s small, he’d explained to Shiro. He’d said,  _No, it’s why you’re strong_.

“I’ve got you, too, Shiro,” he says between kisses, and the kisses change, then. Open and deep and hungry, biting each other’s lips without sweet licks to say sorry, after.

Keith spreads his legs so Shiro can grind against him, harder. Then Shiro tugs on his shirt, “Take it off.” Keith fumbles the buttons, then strips. Shiro pushes him back down flat on his back, bunching his undershirt up to suck his nipples, tasting his bare skin with a heavy groan like he’s been shot. Keith scratches his hands through the burr of his undercut, arching his back off the seat, offering anything, everything.

“You’re not covered in engine grease,” Shiro teases, pulling off one pink nipple to lick his lips.

Keith can’t answer except to whimper.

“I like you better dirty. It’s how I pictured you, when I was away.”

“Fuck, Shiro, don’t--” He’s never said much about those years, and Keith can’t hear it now. He pushes Shiro up, pushes his back against the seat. Or, Shiro lets Keith move him, lets Keith straddle his lap and fight his tie, curse Shiro’s shirt, stretched tight over his broad chest. The buttons, already strained, pop loose easy under Keith’s fingers. Shiro’s hands wrap around Keith’s waist--all the way around, easily--and squeeze. Keith gasps in surprise, meeting Shiro's eyes.

“You’re perfect.”

“Don’t say that,” Keith says, stripping Shiro’s shirt off.

“You are, Keith. You’re--”

Keith shuts him up with his tongue and teeth, with his fingers twisted in his undershirt. He’s not perfect. He’s gotta get out of this piece of shit town, and he’s done more than most would to make his own dream come true. He’s not perfect.

“You taste like cigarettes, baby,” Shiro says.

“You talk too much.”

“Shh. Listen,” Shiro's eyes glitter dark in the pink slash of streetlight cutting through the backseat. “Listen. Cause I know you. And I know you’re gonna run off, now that you got your piece of paper.”

Keith scoffs, as if this wasn’t the plan.

“But what _I’m_ saying is, when I tell you you’re perfect, I don’t mean you’re good.” Shiro steals a kiss, “Or sweet.” Another, then he smirks, “Or clean. Or nice. I just mean you’re perfect, and I don’t want to hear you argue.” How can he always read Keith’s mind? Shiro grinds his hips up, so Keith can feel him. His lips fall open, fingers curling around Shiro’s shoulders to keep his balance. He grinds down. Shiro’s head falls back against the seat with a groan. Revenge. Keith leans in to bite down on his bottom lip, tugging.

Shiro growls and pushes him away, just to pull him back, raking him over his cock. “I bet you want it gentle,” he says.

Keith laughs.

“Don’t laugh. It’s big.”

Keith hums, wiggling in Shiro’s lap, “I can tell.”

“So get it wet.”

Keith makes a noise he’s not proud of. He makes a noise like he’s never done this before. He scrambles to the side to obey, tugging his shirt the rest of the way off while he watches Shiro unzip. He pulls his cock out. Keith does it again--that noise--whining for it. He licks his lips, then Shiro’s hand is on the back of his neck, guiding him down.

“That’s my baby,” he says. Keith licks it all over before he swallows it down. A fat, warm cock deep in his throat, and Shiro’s voice, saying, “Good. That’s my bad boy--” It’s all he’s wanted. It’s where he belongs, giving head in the backseat of Shiro’s car. “You can take it all, baby. Come on, show me what you can do.”

Keith squeezes his eyes tight and opens his throat, slipping all the way down, until he can’t breathe. Until Shiro’s voice sounds muffled, underwater, then, abruptly, Shiro pulls him off by the hair. Keith pants, wiping his chin. He didn’t want to stop. Not ever.

For a long beat they stare, chests rising and falling, windows steamed up and glowing pink from street lamps, pretty as stained glass. Keith is trying to tell Shiro--with his eyes, and not for the first time--that he’s wanted him since they met, too. And wasn’t he young then. Too young to know what it meant to want someone, but that didn’t stop him from wanting Shiro. How now he doesn’t feel alive unless he’s tweaked out or pulling six Gs at the drag strip, or with Shiro. No. Only when he’s with Shiro. The rest are poor replacements for what Shiro does to his heart. It races so fast Keith can't keep up. Shiro’s saying something back to all this, too. He’s telling Keith, with those bitten red lips, “Turn around, baby.”

Keith turns around. Shiro presses close, hard chest to Keith’s back, and pushes him down on his hands and knees, holding his thighs together in the cramped space as he yanks his pants down. Then there’s lube-- yes, he really did plan it, Keith moans at the thought of Shiro thinking of him--and the lube drips sticky between his cheeks. Shiro’s lips are hot against his hair as he fucks his fingers in, whispering, “Wet little slut.” Keith’s been called it all, but this makes his eyes roll back with pleasure. Shiro’s prosthetic hand pushes his shoulders down flat and holds him there, Keith's ass up high as he adds another. “Only way to make you stay in town, you think I don’t know that?”

“Shiro--” God, it’s true, he can’t deny it. The head of his cock is so thick at the first press against his rim, Keith tries to spread his legs wider. Shiro clamps them back shut and draws a sticky line down Keith’s ass with that fat head to fuck between his thighs, big cock smearing lube everywhere until Keith feels wet all over. “Shiro, _please_ \--”  

He’s fucked a lot of guys in the back of their fast cars at the drag strip for cash to get him by until the next big race. None of them made him feel like this. Just like Shiro said. A wet, little slut. He's desperate for it.

Shiro’s cock slides in inch by inch, stuffing Keith full, and he won’t let him spread his legs even when Keith begs. “Gonna keep your legs closed, from now on,” Shiro tells him. “Gonna slow my fast, little slut down.”

Keith comes at this--so quickly he’s ashamed, but Shiro doesn’t stop slamming his hips--each thrust cramming Keith into the door until Keith’s getting hard all over again. He loves it rough.

Shiro pulls Keith back into his lap, bouncing him on his cock at a deeper angle that fries Keith’s nerves, toes curling as he buries his face against Shiro’s neck, hiding sudden tears. “I knew you’d like it, baby,” Shiro soothes, bringing his hand around to circle Keith’s cock. His hand is so big he can reach down with a pinky to play with Keith’s balls even as he strokes the shaft. Keith hangs on to the back of Shiro’s head, crying out his name. He's a ragdoll in Shiro's arms. He comes again. Shiro doesn’t stop.

He pushes him forward onto the center console and whole car shakes with his wild, hard thrusts, picking Keith's hips up and slamming him down until all Keith can do is hold on tight. He loves it. He squeezes around Shiro’s cock and hears him groan, looking over his shoulder to do it again.

They lock eyes, then Shiro’s coming deep inside him, filling Keith up and tugging him back onto his lap. Keith’s dug his fingers into the console so hard that he can’t let go at first, like a cat with his claws stuck, but Shiro coaxes him loose, petting him, kissing his ears and neck. He slips his cock from Keith with a groan. Already, Keith wants it back but Shiro turns him in his lap to cradle his head and kiss him back into his own body--spent and loose limbed in Shiro’s arms. His eyes are wet. So are Shiro's. “That’s right, baby,” Shiro smiles at him. “You’re not going anywhere.”


End file.
